


Déjà Vu

by InsertSthMeaningful



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Fix-It, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Mention of Post Solitary Confinement, Raven Is So Done With Them, Slightly dark!Charles, mutants in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21918223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: When Erik gives in to his worries and checks to see if Charles is okay after a whole stadium has been dropped onto him, he makes a grave mistake: He forgets to watch his own back. The resulting consequences are more than unpleasant for him.But Charles will always be there for him.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 103
Collections: Secret Mutant Madness 2019





	Déjà Vu

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [KuhakuE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuhakuE/pseuds/KuhakuE) in the [secret_mutant_madness_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/secret_mutant_madness_2019) collection. 



> I DID IT!!! I FINISHED IT BEFORE THE DEADLINE!!!  
> Dear KuhakuE, I hope you enjoy (: lemme just tell you that I had problems keeping a straight face when you wrote about that one prompt of yours which hadn't been fulfilled yet (in the Team Cherik server)... 
> 
> Also, all my thanks to flightinflame who betaed this baby for me <3

Outside, there is the screeching of tires on concrete. The wailing of police sirens. The humming of car engines.

And inside, there is silence. The eye of the storm, formed by slabs of concrete and plastic and, what is the most important to Erik, _metal_. The stadium contains an abundance of his material, all homed in on the White House, ready to enclose it, to let not one living soul escape. Iron, steel, the blood of Hank McCoy and the guy Charles was dragging around when they went to Paris-

Charles. Discomfort begins to curl at the back of Erik’s mind as his thoughts immediately wander to the man’s whereabouts. Logan is here, so it would only be logical for Charles to have joined the party, but where is he?

But it’s not like he has time for such petty concerns anyway.

The rows of seats groan as he lowers the concrete-and-metal ring around the building where the president makes his daily decisions, and already, he can feel a structure beneath the soil, cubic, filled with air and bodies moving frantically as they begin to notice their shelter’s upward movement. It tastes like blood on his tongue, his power which is roaming freely, and exhilaration shoots through his veins.

Oh, how he has missed this. With a mere flick of his hand, he sends a sentinel hurtling at Beast and the Wolverine, effectively distracting them for the moment he needs to tear the president’s bunker the last few feet from the ground, and everything takes on a new level of intensity. The haemoglobin circulating in their bodies, he feels it to his core, the rust peeling off the stadium’s iron structures exposed to wind and weather.

And a wheelchair lying abandoned on the lawn, between the toppled-over visitors’ chairs.

Trask, the president, the politicians hiding cowardly can wait. They are too busy shitting their pants to peek out of the bunker, anyway, so Erik turns around to where Charles’ means of locomotion has been left empty, its user nowhere in sight.

Erik put Charles into that damn thing. There is no denying that fact, he has always been bad for the very man he admires the most in the whole wide world. And now he can’t find him, can’t stifle the fear that maybe, he has fucked up even more gloriously than last time.

He can’t have killed Charles… right?

Then, he is certain that he hasn’t, because he can feel something pulsing behind a block of concrete, a heartbeat, can feel the warmth of a body against a metal beam. And he even hears Charles as he draws nearer, slurred curses and moans.

His opponent has gotten so vulgar since last he saw him, and it can probably be blamed on the liquor. Not that Erik minds.

All it takes to lift away the obstacles obscuring Charles from his view is a flourish of his hands. It draws a gasp that’s almost a cry out of Charles’ throat, agonized and surprised at the same time. There is blood on his temple, and a suspicious wetness to his blue eyes.

Behind him, Erik can feel the activity in the metal cube subsiding slowly, and across the grounds, the last sentinel he has at hand is being dismantled by two vicious mutants, brought so close to the strength of savage animals by the force of evolution alone. He couldn’t care less. All that matters now is the man lying in front of him and breathing erratically, two fingers to his temple as though he could reach through Erik’s helmet, filter in through the cracks and make him see sense. Or at least his version of sense.

“Charles.” One foot in front of the other, carefully. It is impossible to predict what his _old friend_ intends to do next. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

The telepath is dragging himself into a sitting position now and wincing every time his legs move uselessly behind him on the grass. “Well, you shouldn’t have come either,” he breathes when he finally stills, his voice deep and rough from pain, “because look at this mess.” And with his chin, he gestures at their surroundings, all rubble and torn-up earth. “You know, Erik, everywhere you go, chaos follows. A truly remarkable character trait.”

That’s… Charles isn’t flirting with him, or is he? It wouldn’t surprise Erik, though. “I don’t know what to answer to that.”

A shrug, and then Charles is silent again, staring over Erik’s shoulder to where two bodies are moving, coming towards them, and behind them, a sentinel’s metal hull is cooling slowly. All Erik has to do is raise a hand, and Hank is ambushed by metal wires coiling around his body while Logan yelps and swears and gets dragged off the ground by his belt buckle. A grimace flickers over Charles’ face as Erik unceremoniously drops the Canadian onto a seat row of the stadium, one which they both know has lots of metal parts sticking up dangerously.

“Now, where were we?” Erik asks, and Charles’ eyes flick back to hone in on his face. “I’m causing you trouble, yes? Then excuse me for a minute or so as I go set a warning example.”

“Wait! Erik, wait,” Charles breathes desperately before Erik can turn around and walk to the exposed bunker, “I- Please don’t do this, Erik, please-”

“Are you going to tell me they are just _men following orders_?” Erik spits.

Shaking his head, Charles reaches a hand out for him. “No, no, Erik, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking that day, but now...” And if that isn’t a plea in his eyes, Erik doesn’t know what it could be. “Please, Erik.”

“Don’t try anything funny,” Erik warns, but he just can’t resist the pull, the force that makes him step over ground concrete and torn-up grass and finally sees him kneeling by Charles’ side, as though they were on that beach again, in Cuba, one whole decade back.

Charles isn’t the sweet, caring man Erik once knew, not anymore. Of course, he has changed, the alcohol (and _what Erik has done,_ but he is incapable of thinking about it) has turned him bitter and wrung out. And Erik isn’t the man he once was, either. Almost ten years in solitary confinement, stripped of his powers’ fuel, have done things to him, and he isn’t sure if these _things_ are good or bad or both.

Still, he gets a bit light-headed when he takes Charles’ outstretched hand between his, cradles it like the precious gift it is. On his cheeks, he can almost feel the biting Cuban sun, and on his lips lingers the smell of the sea and the scratching of the sand. The déjà vu intensifies.

Charles is smiling up at him, gently, and it clashes with Erik’s memory of that fateful day. Charles didn’t smile up at him then.

“Oh, my dear friend, I won’t try anything funny,” he murmurs, the rich movement of his lips hypnotizing, “but she will.”

Too late does Erik understand that Charles has been stalling for time all along. There is movement behind his back until suddenly, fresh air is hitting his scalp and Mystique’s voice joins in, “He’s all yours, brother.”

His helmet. His helmet is gone. Reflexively, his hands go up to his head, letting Charles’ fingers slip from his, and really, what he feels is his hair, not the chipped surface of his only protection against telepathy.

“What-?”

“Thank you, Raven,” Charles says and turns away to where the indigo-skinned woman is righting his wheelchair. “Are the cameras still on?”

“They are,” she answers, then picks him up like he weighs nothing and settles him in his means of transportation, worry on her face as she brushes the hair out of his eyes to check his head wound.

Charles only waves her off. “It’s nothing.” Then he fixates on Erik.

Erik, who is still kneeling on the lawn, not knowing what to do, how to act. He can only look back and hope for mercy.

 _Merciful I am, my love_ , Charles sends as he envelops Erik’s mind with his, a steady presence not as warm as he remembers it. _But I am also in need of some help_.

The last thing Erik can croak out is, “You said you would never get into that head of mine again,” before his powers are no longer _his_.

As Charles wheels up to him, flanked by Mystique, the camera lenses turn to face them, take it all in. Behind them, Erik can hear voices, shouts, cursing as the president files out of the metal bunker and is escorted off to where his security hope he can be kept safe.

 _If you let them have me I’m as good as dead_ , Erik pleads, _you know that, Charles_ -

 _Quiet_ , he gets cut off. “Citizens of the USA,” Charles begins then, “citizens of the world. _We_ call ourselves _mutants._ And today, we have chosen to reveal ourselves to you. But do not worry, there is no need to fear us.”

“We come in peace,” Mystique intercepts, “we mean no harm.” And her voice is as sincere as it can possibly get.

Now, Charles is surely nodding, but Erik can’t tell because he can’t move, can’t lift his head, can’t even make his eyes look up on their own accord. “This is undeniably true. We have no intention to hurt you, as long as you don’t seek to eradicate our people. And this is the condition we come with: as long as...”

Erik can hear no more after that. He can only feel the blades of grass under his knees, as though the world was pressing them up from beneath him, into him, the whole weight of the planet touching his skin. There are also his hands, gripping one another behind his back (he can’t remember when he moved into that pose, like a servant, a slave, obedient to a master), almost painfully. And Charles’ voice, droning on over his head, the numbing words, all of them so… so…

He must have fallen asleep after that, because in his memory, there is a gap, a void. And he is as certain as he will ever be that it won’t be, can’t be filled.

  
  


The two prison guards move swiftly down the bland hallways, but Charles has no difficulty keeping up with them. One month is enough to time for his body to get re-accustomed to handling his wheels, to make them take him where he actually wants to go. It’s as easy as pie, really.

“You might have to prepare for a slightly disturbing sight, Sir,” one of the guards says, “he has been reported as not having eaten or spoken for one week now, since he got the sentence.”

This startles a laugh out of the other uniformed man. “Maybe he’s so kind and tries to finish the work before the executioner can.” He is nervously rubbing the handle of his gun in its holster, like he knows only one de-powering collar stands between him and just that weapon being pointed straight at his head.

Charles chooses not to respond. Frankly, such jokes are inappropriate, and he wants the guard to feel, to understand it. “When are we there?”

“It’s just around the corner, actually.” The first man, Smith, points ahead to a junction.

And really, as soon as they reach it, there is a glassfront glaring at them, allowing free view into a narrow cell with one cot and nothing more. In the wall opposite the door, there is an open entrance leading off into a small bathroom, but the toilet, the rudimentary shower and the washbasin are all there is what concerns interior decor.

Well, that is if you choose not to consider the man lying on the bed a true ornament. Because Charles does. He feels thrown back to the time they spent in the CIA base, surrounded by men with guns, just like here, and sleeping and playing chess in shabby motel rooms which didn’t have much larger beds than Erik’s cell right now. And when Charles looks at Erik’s still face and feels that he has already lived this, such a quiet moment in such a small space, on the brink of the beginning of something new (the discovery of mutant-kind or its emancipation, it doesn’t matter which), he knows he is just experiencing a déjà vu.

“This is the convict,” the second guard adds unhelpfully, “Erik Lehnsherr, mutant criminal and-”

“Yes, thank you, I know.” Charles tries not to smile at Smith giving his colleague the side-eyes. “After all, it is me who put him here.” Now that is true as well, and it hurts. But what is his reason for being here if not to make things right?

Smith looks at him, then at Erik, who is still and staring up at the ceiling as though they weren’t there. “And we were told you also are the one who has... volunteered to take him off our hands?” Oh, now _his_ hand is wandering dangerously close to his fire weapon.

Charles nods in emphasis. “Yes. And I would prefer it if you wouldn’t use that.” He gives a gentle nudge with his mind, and Smith stares at his hand as though it were possessed by the devil itself. “Thank you. Now, may I enter?”

He may. The glass door is locked behind him, but it isn’t for nothing that he hasn’t taken the serum since Erik attacked the White House. Not only his control over his wheelchair has grown better. His telepathy, too, has been restored in its entire range and finesse. There is no risk in letting himself be locked in with a murderer when two men are standing guard outside, minds unshielded and utterly open to suggestions.

The only problem seems to be that just this murderer is utterly unwilling to acknowledge his presence.

  
  


Charles is staring at him. Erik can feel it on his skin, hot and so unwelcome it almost makes him squirm (and in a shamingly bothered way at that, it’s not like he had time to squeeze in some actual release with a physical partner between the Pentagon, Paris, Washington D.C. and then his last station, a prison upstate). But he will be the last one to give in, oh yes.

He is resilient. He will lay here silently, unmoving, like in all of his years under the pentagon.

“Erik.” Charles’ sigh speaks of deep weariness. “Please, look at me.”

Oh no, Erik won’t look at Charles.

He won’t.

When he does, though, after a few heartbeats of persevering silence, he has to do a double-take. Charles’ unkempt beard has disappeared in favor of a smooth shave, the bags under his eyes have been reduced to mere shadows and, what Erik isn’t sure he can approve of, he has changed in his rumpled shirt and flare pants for a suit sewn of tweed. It’s horrendous, and it makes tears prick in the corners of Erik’s eyes, because Charles is so beautiful.

Just one week ago, the authorities had informed him about his trial’s outcome, and his eyes are so damp now because he knows that in one month, he won’t be around anymore to enjoy this sight. To just lie still and take in Charles’ soft face, soft hair, soft smile. No, it’s not himself he is worried about, _he_ is rotten to the core. He just wishes he would have had some more time to see Charles trying to mend this rottenness.

“What do you want from me?” His voice scratches against his vocal cords, it’s been so long that he hasn’t talked out loud.

A smile is his reward as Charles says, “Your powers. I want your powers, Erik, and I want you.”

“What?” This is a joke. It has to be. The guards are probably standing outside and laughing themselves to death right now.

“The school we talked about… I am building it. And I need teachers, experienced mutants who have honed their powers and can show our pupils how to hone theirs. Having our old team back together, and Armando… we have received message of a psionic phenomenon, and we think he might soon be joining us... it’s good already, but I need more to work with. I need _you_ , Erik.”

Erik is dreaming. Surely he is.

Charles takes his stunned silence as an invitation to continue babbling. “Also, there is Peter, the boy you met at the Pentagon, you might remember him.” Erik knows that recognition and a nagging feeling of having missed something light up his mind like candles in a darkened room, and Charles giving him an approving look confirms that he is in his head right now. “Yes. He wants to talk to you, Erik, urgently. Before… before something can happen to you.” _And also,_ I _would very much like to have you around. To make sure this_ something _won’t happen to you_.

A movement outside momentarily draws Erik’s attention away from Charles. It’s one of the guards who has moved to stand in front of the door, back to them, arms crossed over his chest. At his hip, the metal of his gun is gleaming, and Erik’s mouth suddenly feels dry.

In the dark, when it was night, he sometimes was unable to sleep. And he has used that time to claw at his collar, to get the damn thing off, or to give himself such bad chafing that they just would _have_ to take it away, or just to feel something, anything. This way of suppressing his mutation is different from the Pentagon, and it’s so much worse.

When he looks back around to meet Charles’ gaze, the telepath’s eyes are gleaming suspiciously. _Oh Erik. I will get you out of here, I promise_. Then, for a split second, it feels like someone is taking his hand and squeezing, and a tear finally detaches itself from Erik’s lashes to make its way down, down, down, along his cheek, his jaw.

“You were the one who brought me here,” he rasps out, “and now you want me back, as a glorified lap dog, and you know it. We both do.”

Again, Charles sighs as he leans back in his wheelchair. “But Erik, what would it possibly have looked like if I had let you walk away? You, a mutant sentenced for supposedly killing the president of the United States and so obviously ready to murder another. I’m sorry, my friend, but mutant or not, there was no way I could have let you go without consequences if I wanted to ensure the safety of my people.”

Erik hates that Charles has a point. But, “You went into my head. You controlled me.”

“And I am deeply sorry for that, I am. You can’t imagine the guilt I feel.”

“I do. I know how it feels, because I shot you. I dropped a stadium on you. Why would you possibly want me back?”

At that, Charles stills and says no more for a few minutes. Only his steady presence in Erik’s head remains as he thinks and thinks.

“Because,” he begins finally, hesitantly, “because you’re _you_ , Erik.” _How could I_ possibly _do without you?_

_You can’t?_

_If the past decade has shown me something, then this. Please, have me, if you will._

_I will. Of course, I will._ And for the first time in weeks, Erik smiles.

Afterwards, when they are escorted through the hallways, the foyer, everyone stares at them. Erik doesn’t know if it’s because he is on the loose, because Charles has managed to bust him out or because he has lost so much weight that he must not be far from resembling a skeleton (it reminds him of a time he doesn’t want to think of, a time of trudging through mud or lying on cold ceramic tables equipped with drains and leather restraints). At his side, Charles is smiling pleasantly, but there is a dark air of menace around him, and the guards, the watchmen and even the prison’s receptionist know better than to lay any more obstacles in their way. Ah yes, they prefer it if their brains aren’t getting scrambled.

Except that when they’re about to walk – or in Charles’ case, wheel – out of the door, there is a shout for “Call for Charles Xavier!” behind their back, and a young man behind the counter gesturing wildly at a phone.

 _What now?_ Charles sounds annoyed in Erik’s head, tired, but he backtracks and takes the speaker with a nod and a smile.

“Charles Xavier, how can I- oh, Hank! Is everything alright?”

Even without his powers, Erik can feel the guards moving behind his back, positioning themselves as though they were expecting something horrible to go down any moment now.

“A mutant kid? In a car crash?”

Erik has to muster up all his willpower to remain standing still and ramrod straight, to not let his hands reach up for his collar. He wants it, _needs_ it _off_. But the armed men would put a dozen bullets in his body if he tried.

Charles hums. “Interesting. And you said the fath- Oh! But that’s horrible!”

The click of the door lets everyone safe the telepath swing around. Erik gapes. It’s Mystique, standing tall and proud and beautiful with her scales glittering in the sunlight like the ocean. There is nothing covering her up safe a light summer dress, even though the wind is blowing autumn leaves over the pavement outside.

“Why, of course I’ll see what I can do- oh, right now?” Charles gives his sister a nod, then returns back to his call. “One moment please.”

Mystique is swinging a car key around on her finger and smiles when Charles meets her eyes. “Hey there. You were taking your time, so I thought I would take a look to see if Erik has left your head on your shoulders.” She turns to the man in question, gives him a grin. “Apparently he’s learned to behave.”

It’s like the clock’s handles have been turned back. Charles gives Raven an exasperated look, and even Erik can hear the silent exchange of _Not here, please_ and _What, you could make everyone here believe they’re flying pigs_.

Carefully, he turns to the guard nearest to him, gives the dumbfounded man a shrug. “Siblings.”

“Well, anyway.” Charles is clearing his throat now, pointing to the telephone. “What do you think of a small detour before we return to the mansion?”

  
  


In the backseat, Charles is weaseling on about the girl telepath they are visiting in the hospital, and Raven does her best not to rip out the steering wheel of the Jaguar she’s driving right now. God, she has forgotten how annoying his mindless babbling can be. What is he even talking about now, omega level something and color-coordinating the poor kid’s bedroom?

Apparently, Erik has the same thoughts. Raven can see him in the rear-view mirror. Slumped against the car door opposite Charles, arms crossed over his chest, he is the perfect picture of pure annoyance and deepest exhaustion. There are lines on his face which weren’t there before Charles left him to being arrested by the police and his cheekbones are more prominent than Raven remembers. His second time of being incarcerated hasn’t been good to him.

Not that Raven pities him much. Her right leg still hurts like hell from where he buried the bullet in her flesh, she’s still limping around even one month after Paris. And sometimes, when she comes down to the kitchen in the morning, she gets a glimpse of Charles drinking coffee at the kitchen table, alone, with neither Hank nor Logan or Alex anywhere around, and his legs always look so thin in his wheelchair then. Like twigs, ready to be broken by a single blow.

It might be cruel to say, but Erik deserved at least part of being locked away from the world.

Right now, the man is gazing over at Charles while this one drones on about how he wants to make the USA, the whole world a better place for mutants. From time to time, Erik’s hand goes up to his collar, probably a subconscious act, because his eyes never leave Charles’ face, are almost glued to his lips. Suddenly, it all feels so very familiar, like she’s having a déjà vu.

It’s like Raven is back at the mansion, doing dumb shit with Angel and Sean and making a game out of watching Charles and Erik flirt: How many times per day their eyes meet or Charles’ gaze wanders downwards when Erik isn’t paying attention for a second, and vice versa. All three of them agree that the two idiots are made for each other, but that they will probably never get it on, not in a whole lifetime.

“Oh, Erik!” Charles finally interrupts himself, “I’m so sorry, I totally forgot-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Erik concedes and tries to play the strong man.

Charles, though, is as undeceived as Raven. He leans over and touches his fingers to Erik’s collar, gingerly, and Raven can see why because there are bruises on Erik’s neck and shoulders. She swallows. That neck, those shoulders, they could just as easily be hers.

It takes a minute or two of Charles fishing out and ripping open an envelope with the prison’s stamp on it, and then he is taking Erik’s face in both of his hands and asking, “Can I trust you?”

“You can.” Erik’s voice is even, but his fingers are twitching.

“Good.” Charles takes a small key, barely longer than Raven’s pinkie, makes Erik turn around so he can reach the back of his neck and lets the lock click open. Carefully, he lifts the inhibitor from Erik’s shoulders. “Do you feel anything?”

As a response, a ballpoint pen Charles keeps in the ash tray between the driver’s and the passenger’s seat takes to the air and stays there, rotating slowly. Raven tries to keep her eyes on the road ahead, but hey, she’s feeling just a bit threatened.

Charles just chuckles. “Brilliant. Jean, the girl we’re about to see, she’s a telekinetic as well. You’ll be good for her.”

“Will I, though?” Erik asks and lowers the pen.

Raven is unable to hold back a relieved sigh. “Yes, will he? Have you seen the jumpsuit he’s wearing? He looks like he just broke out of prison.”

“It’s a hospital,” Charles responds airily, “he won’t stand out.” And that said, he scoots over to where Erik is pressed against the car door like a cornered animal and adds, “But you could loosen up a bit, old friend.”

It’s like watching a mountain surrender to a storm flood. From one moment to the other, all the tension has gone out of Erik, and he leans against Charles with a shuddering sigh, buries himself in the telepath’s arms like he wants to see no more of the world. Over his shoulder, Charles gives Raven a triumphant smile, and she groans and says, “Get a room, you two.”

“Shut up or look away,” Charles answers, “shouldn’t you be driving anyway?” Then, he yelps as Erik nuzzles his neck and Raven thinks that for once, it’s probably best to listen to her brother, so she keeps her eyes straight ahead on the concrete and tries to ignore whatever is going on in the backseat. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sending all the love to you :D and I hope you have a nice Hanukkah <3


End file.
